


Regret

by Dickbutt



Series: Dickbutt Writes Again [8]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Blood, Character Death, Gender Neutral, Hurt No Comfort, Never Got to Say Goodbye, Other, Parting Words Regret, this whole fic is really just a jojo reference It's Fine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-14
Updated: 2016-12-14
Packaged: 2018-09-08 15:27:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8850265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dickbutt/pseuds/Dickbutt
Summary: It was as you’d said weeks before: The burden of command.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Original request: If requests are still open, perhaps some writing about Il mare eterno from the mystery page?
> 
> Originally posted at: [Dickbutt Writes Again](http://dickbutt-writes-again.tumblr.com) on Tumblr.
> 
> Note: Mentioned on the blog, this fic was originally going to be Il Mare Eterno on it's own, but during writing a second fic split off and developed on a similar premise that was more apropos under that title. So while this fic is listed as Il Mare Eterno under the blog it's only due to the original request and is in fact a separate fic.
> 
> I am VERY good at titling things I promise. I swear.

There was something to be said about being the lover of Overwatch’s Strike Commander. Due to his important position, there could be no favoritism, of course, but it wasn’t without its perks – one being Jack’s very nice, very large bed and private quarters. Before the call to action went out, you were very hesitant to even leave it, content as you were to just _be_ with him. Time alone grew increasingly rare as Overwatch gained more and more traction as the world’s peacekeeper in the shadow of the Omnic Crisis.

The moment you left privacy, he was no longer Jack, but Commander Morrison, shouldering the burden of command. It was hard, but it was a necessity.  

Duty called, of course, as it always would. There were always people to rescue, days to save, and this mission was no exception, calling on the best Overwatch had to offer to drive back a burgeoning terrorist force. You watched him from where you reclined as he squared his shoulders and donned the role of Commander again. As always, you would step into his shadow, watch his back.

Your working relationship remained absolutely professional; whatever you were off the battlefield, it never got in the way of your jobs. You worked in tandem with flawless teamwork, executing missions and plans with high success and few losses. Ana may have been his second-in-command, but you were his _partner_ , in every sense, sliding in where Gabriel could not, relegated to Blackwatch as he was.

You understood each other, could communicate near-wordlessly; made up for each others’ weaknesses and emphasized each others’ strengths. Victory personified.

So naturally, it baffled you when Jack called for the unit to return to base when you already had the enemy cornered and outmanned.

You cornered him in his makeshift quarters when you’d heard the order, stormed up, chestplate half undone, face still streaked in dirt from the earlier attack.

“What the fuck was _that_ , Jack?!”

He tried not to flinch at the volume of your voice, would reprimand you if there were anyone but the two of you in the vicinity, though any passerby would no doubt be drawn in by your shouting. If he maintained a level head, he was sure he could get through this.

“With the enemy on the run, we’ll have time to regroup and recover for the final assault. They don’t stand a chance.”

“Yeah and they’re gonna be regrouping too, _c’mon_ , we gotta strike while the iron’s hot!” You gestured desperately. “We can get them!”

He sighed. “Their retreat was too quick, we don’t know how well they’ve already prepared their fortifications, and I don’t want to go rushing in there blind when we could lose more men.”

“ _Jack_ ,” you pleaded, shifting quickly from charged up to frustrated. “You don’t… - _listen_ , there are civilians involved, you got the sitrep too, we can’t just… sit on our hands and have a meeting about what we should do, we gotta _act_.”

“You’re not thinking clearly!” He shook his head, lips pulled into a line. “We’d be walking into a trap – the hostages are bait, you _know_ that. I’m not taking that risk.”

“Oh, so you’re scared.”

He flinched, nose curling up in distaste at the knee-jerk accusation. You always were a little temperamental, and the adrenaline from the fight was of no help with that. He watched you shrug out of pieces of your combat armor, almost manically, like they were constricting you; with how wound up you were, it probably felt like it. He leaned back against the table, arms crossed.

“I’ve got a recon team going out now, we’ll find a hole in whatever defense they’ve got set up and blow right through it. You’re overreacting for no reason.”

“ _Overreacting?”_ You huffed, starting to pace. “I’m sorry, I thought we were a peacekeeping organization. I thought we were here to _protect_ people. How are we supposed to fuckin’ protect anybody if they’re all _dead_?”

“You’re out of line!” he snapped.

You threw your arms up at him.

“What, gonna put me in _time out_ like everybody else who disagrees with you? Send me to Blackwatch?” You scoffed. “Gabe’d fuckin’ listen to me.”

The comment, at last, struck a nerve. His demeanor completely changed, and he leveled you with a stone stare, which stopped you in your tracks. He wasn’t Jack anymore – he was Commander Morrison.

“You’re dismissed, soldier. That’s an _order._ ”

He watched your posture shift, face impassive, but your body tensed like you were ready to take a swing at him, which he honestly anticipated; anything was better than the silence you were giving him in the moments after his command. But instead you laughed bitterly, the tone striking Jack’s heart with a sour note.

“Of course. Of course, of- _fucking-_ course you’re pulling –“ you threw your chestplate at the wall with a bang – “ _goddamn_ rank on me right now! Unbelievable!”

“That’s enough!” You stopped your erratic movements just as they began at the sound of his ‘Commander’ voice. “You done having your tantrum, or do I need to remove you from the mission?”

You stood not two feet from each other in tense silence; you, breathing heavily from your nose, chest heaving; he, standing straight-backed with all the authority in his gaze he could muster. You deflated, but your eyes burned a glare straight through his skull. You picked up your discarded chest piece – no doubt dented – with jerky motions, keeping yourself in check – just barely. His eyes softened, the heat from the argument already escaping him, and he reached out for you, but you brushed past, not even making eye contact. His chest clenched.

“Listen, get some rest. We’ll group up in a few hours.”

You said nothing – not to him, at least. As you walked away he could hear you muttering to yourself, mostly curses.

“— _fuck. Thought I knew you better than this_ …”

He actually did flinch when you slammed the door behind you and his shoulders sagged with the slow exhale he made. There was a gnawing ache in his chest, one that carried the urge to run after you, but he fought it down, leaned heavy against his desk and sighed.

It was as you’d said weeks before: The burden of command.

* * *

 

“Commander Morrison, sir? There’s… there’s been an explosion.”

The news rocked him. He stood immediately from his desk and geared up reflexively, demanding a report from the agent who had brought the news. A small squad broke enemy lines and snuck into the building where the terrorists had holed up after their retreat, likely in an attempt to free the group of hostages. A firefight had ensued, triggering an explosion.

There was no doubt in Jack’s mind that you had been behind it.

Though on the surface he maintained the professionalism required of him as Strike Commander, on the inside he was _livid._ He’d told you to wait! And there you went endangering your fellow agents and even civilians. He rounded up his team – Gabe curious and Ana concerned – and they all fell in behind him, along with another contingent of soldiers. He was fully prepared to clean up your mess – and deal with whatever consequences that entailed.

On arrival to the combat zone, clouds of smoke and dust floated from broken windows and entryways, and gunfire was surprisingly sparse. He didn’t doubt that the explosion had either killed or driven off most of the combatants, and everyone prepared for cleanup. The bloodied body of an Overwatch agent lay on the ground outside and he thought of the squad you’d dragged along with you. Always reckless – though it wasn’t like you to not think of others. You and he would have to have a talk when you returned to base.

They ventured inside. Most of the ceiling had collapsed in the explosion, leaving gaps of fleeting daylight to come pouring into the room, providing a steady source of illumination in lieu of the lost electricity. It had also been the cause of a great amount of casualties, given the amount of bodies strewn around the main room. The phrase ‘hoist by their own petard’ came to mind. The majority of his team worked to locate the surviving hostages and hunt down any straggling enemy combatants. He lingered in the main hall, stepping over wreckage, examining the damage. He wondered where you were, if you were alright. As upset as he was over your recklessness, he wouldn’t know what to do if you’d gone and gotten yourself hurt.

He stepped in something slick, and looked down. The blood beneath his boot was tacky – still slick, but already drying. He stepped back to examine the rubble, saw that the blood came from beneath and his heart hurt for whatever poor bastard had gotten themselves caught in the roof collapse. He froze when something crunched underfoot.

It was hard to make out, having been pressed into the blood by his boot heel, but bent and bloody as it was, the object was still identifiable as a dog tag. His thumb smeared away what he could, and bile rose up to his throat, almost choking him.

It was your name.

Blood still seeped from beneath the crushing stone, clinging to his boots, it was–

He took several rapid steps back, the metal of your tag cutting into his hand even though his glove and the room spun sideways. Blood chased the cracks in the floor making rivers to drown him in.

_Don’t scream, don’t scream, don’t **scream.**_

No matter how much he wanted to. He still had a team to lead, had to be the face of Overwatch as they led the hostages out behind him, as your blood dried on his hands, shaking, clenched, grasping at nothing. He didn’t register being on his knees, his entire world narrowed to a single slab of rock pressed flush to the ground, leaving nothing behind. The remaining hostages were extracted. Somebody was congratulating him, somebody damning Overwatch for the casualties, somebody was asking him if he was all right, somebody was rounding up the injured, the dead. The dead.

His eyes didn’t leave the rubble.

“Commander?”

You fought. He fought with you and never got to apologize, never got to de-escalate the situation. He remembered your last angry words , you died angry with him, he’d never know if you forgave him in your final moments –

“Commander Morrison?”

Before the mission you’d laid with him, quiet in the early morning, half asleep, just watching each other. He should’ve said it then, but for the burden of command. You’d said before he’d be a great Strike Commander, always there to reassure him, he never told you exactly how much it meant to him. Wanted to tell you he loved you but the words wouldn’t come out, knotted in his throat, sank into his chest like a burning rock, destroying everything –

“ – _going into shock_ – ”

The rubble. The dead. The blood.

“Jesus, _shit_ , Morrison – _Jack -_ _pendejo,_ you in there?”

Nothing remained.

* * *

 

He came back to himself in the medbay back at base – a hurriedly assembled thing, in the wake of the sudden destruction. He didn’t remember how or when, didn’t remember getting there or any faces. Reyes stared at him from the other side of the room, lips pulled into a tight line, eyes hard. As far as he could tell, he was uninjured. Then, Reyes spoke.

“You back with us, Jackie?”

The low rumble of his voice brought him back to the present and Jack made a distressed sound, looking around rapidly. Reyes crossed the room in long strides, pressed his hand hard to Jack’s shoulder and shoved him forcibly to the bed. He waited patiently as the man’s chest rose and fell rapidly, fighting off another bout of panic to the sound of Reyes’ quiet murmurs, hollow in the face of his grief.

“They’re dead, Gabe, oh god, they’re dead, they’re dead.”

Nothing his friend did could stop his anguished babbling, which as he wore out, devolved into wordless screaming, until his throat was too hoarse to do anything but quiet sobs. The iron tang of blood still hung heavy in the room, and he could feel it beneath his fingernails, still feel it on his skin. Gabe sat at his side, gave up on trying to say anything, just remained, watched, in case Jack was going to try anything.

He never did, only tired himself out, eventually passed into exhaustion at the tail end of his agony. Gabe was more than glad to fill out the mission reports in his stead, gave him something to focus on other than the echo of Jack’s screaming in his head.

The handful of witnesses to the event were implicitly sworn to silence – nobody would dare to voice that they worried for the golden Strike Commander’s mental health. And nobody had him go through a psych eval – who could force their Commander through that? – though it was implicitly stated that should he find a need, there would always be help waiting.

After that first night, Jack waved off all concerns and wrapped himself in the persona of Strike Commander like it was armor. And when the mission was all wrapped up, he retired to his quarters and wasn’t seen directly for days, hardly had contact with anyone outside his closest companions. And then he had no witnesses to see him reach over to the empty side of his bed and weep unspoken regrets.  

He pushed it all aside, had to, had to wake up out of whatever he’d fallen into and lead Overwatch. But it only got harder, as the demands of the people grew as loud as the accusations, until the accusations grew louder. He lost Ana, he lost Gabriel; he lost everything he cared about, one by one, and remained resolute, heart hardened.

And when the Zurich base fell on his head he could only think, in more than an ironic way, that it’s what he deserved. He failed you; he failed Overwatch; the world. Let him be buried, then. Let him meet you in the afterlife not as a coward who’d let you turn away, but as a man who’d learned from his mistakes. In death, perhaps, he would find redemption.

When he wakes amid destruction, he screams. There’s no one there to hear him.


End file.
